


Domus est ubi cor est

by Koan_abyss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Early Days, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25445071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koan_abyss/pseuds/Koan_abyss
Summary: Mycroft arrives home late from work, while Gregory awaits him.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	Domus est ubi cor est

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Domus est ubi cor est](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14813595) by [Koan_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koan_abyss/pseuds/Koan_abyss). 



> This is a small experiment: I've tried to translate one of my first fics.  
> I'm no translator and English is not my native language, so you're going to find a lot of mistakes, I'm afraid. Corrections are welcome!

_‘My apologies. I am afraid it will be impossible for me to greet you at my place tonight. Certain matters arose that will not be wise to postpone.’ MH_

_‘Ok, no worries. I got some work to bring home, too. Let’s say another time?’ GL_

_‘Could I suggest you wait at my place? My esteemed lateness is one hour and half. Two, if our interpreter was born before 1975.’ MH_

_‘? Whatever that means. Sure is not a problem?’ GL_

_‘Absolutely certain.’ MH_

_‘See you later, then…’ GL_

Mycroft Holmes put aside his cell phone, gesturing his assistant to proceed.

“We _could_ reschedule, Mister Holmes. Not pushing it off for 24 hours, but surely until the morning,” she said, checking his calendar on her inseparable black berry.

“It is not necessary, Anthea. We are going to stick to today’s schedule,” replied Mycroft. “Continue.”

All impending questions were solved before 19.08. The interpreter was indeed born before 1975, and therefore old enough to have lived and absorbed the URSS language typical of the pre-Perestroika phase, fact that lead him to unconsciously use some partisan terms, consequently slowing down slightly the successful conclusion of that small and timely arbitration.

Mycroft did not regret it: even if it made the meeting longer and more annoying, not to tell unbearably dull, it also had allowed him to waste all the time he needed. Switching off the office lights and following Anthea to the car, Mycroft estimated that with the rush-hour traffic he would make it home, to Gregory, exactly two hours later than expected.

He knew it for sure, because when Detective Inspector Lestrade had arrived to his flat the security team, previously alerted, had sent him a frame from their feed to ask confirmation. Mycroft still felt like he had Gregory’s profile in front of him, while the man approached the front door, his shoulders hunched because of his laptop bag and an armful of folders. In the frame, Gregory lifted his head to look at the front of the building, strolling idly. He probably exited the car with his usual purposeful stride, and then slowed down the closer he got to his destination, studying it, wondering, pondering…

Mycroft bid farewell to Anthea and got in the car, sitting straight and composed, his hands on his brolly.

“Home.”

He wondered if the unusual tourists and cabs traffic would have granted them few minutes more. Mycroft could spend them reviewing an aerial photographic of Mali and evaluating signs of suspect activities.

He opened the flat’s door at 19.37, right the time he hoped.

He looked around searching for clues of Gregory’s presence. No coat hanging by the door. Quite often, Gregory brought it upstairs, especially if Mycroft was not there to take it from him. Particularly that night, with his hands full, Gregory had probably shed his coat only when he got to the study. He passed in the kitchen just the time to grab a glass of water, leaving his papers for a minute on the workstation beside the sink, where he then left the empty glass.

Mycroft went upstairs quietly, following the lights and the door left ajar in his study. Gregory had probably left it that way wanting to be found immediately and not to suggest he did not wanted to be disturbed in a house that was not his own.

Mycroft allowed himself a few minutes more to brace himself for the view, and then stepped inside.

Gregory was working on the coffee table between the armchair and the chesterfield in front of the fireplace, despite Mycroft broad desk being free.

“Ehy,” Gregory greeted him with a nervous smile, like someone caught in the act.

“Well met,” said Mycroft, smiling too.

He could read Gregory’s movements inside the study as if he had been there, following them, unseen. Gregory had hovered in the center of the room just for a minute, and then reached the coffee table in front of the chesterfield to set down the documents and the laptop bag cutting his right shoulder. It was his usual seat, when Mycroft was working at the desk or slumped into the armchair. His coat was folded on the armrest, despite the standing valet behind the screen on the right. Gregory had set down his work and thrown his coat on the couch, and then dawdled for a while, watching the room from the harbor of the sitting area, a little awkward, maybe a little bored. Soon after he had sat in front of his cases, but the numerous wrinkles on his trousers told he had stood multiple times (to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket, to move his laptop bag out of the way, and then for a stroll to the window). At some point he had reached the drinks cabinet to get himself a drink, but judging from the liquor level and the ice cubes size, he probably made up his mind in the last 20 minutes.

By then, Gregory was twitching under his examination. He collected himself and stood, determined to break that moment of embarrassment he found himself in every time he had to wait somewhere for Mycroft to arrive, be it at the Diogenes, or in a car park after been collected by one of Mycroft drivers. In the second case, embarrassment was paired with abrasiveness; but it used to temper, and with a little bit of patience it vanished, when they ended up together again.

Gregory moved forward him.

“It’s good to see you,” he said quietly before kissing Mycroft, resting a hand at his waist and the other on his shoulder, ready to skim over his arm.

“The feeling is absolutely mutual,” assured him Mycroft, watching him fondly, smiling again.

Embarrassment came abruptly back on Gregory’s face, widening his wonderful brown eyes and making color creep on his cheeks and neck.

“I got comfortable,” he said, clearing his throat. “Hope you don’t mind…”

“On the contrary,” murmured Mycroft.

He had already witnessed Gregory getting comfortable in his office at Scotland Yard, and this had nothing to do with the looseness he transmitted abandoned against the backrest of his chair, his familiarity while throwing stuff inside the cabinet drawers, or the blissful carelessness while drinking or eating over the folders scattered all over the desk. But it was at least a step forward.

Mycroft was aware that his house was not particularly warm: classic, imposing and definitely too posh for Gregory to feel at ease inside it. But at the same time the flat Gregory found after the separation from his wife was not ‘home’ either, to the man. He (fortunately) spent little time there, and it was reminiscent of too painful failures to be an actually happy place. And Mycroft wished Gregory had a place where feeling at home, a place inspiring laughter and those deep and warm glances. Mycroft wanted his study to be familiar and comfortable, a shelter where Gregory could get himself a drink with his shirtsleeves rolled up, and doze waiting for Mycroft to come home from work.

Gregory was starting to get suspicious of his gaze and Mycroft stepped back after another light kiss.

“Are you done?” he asked.

“Almost.”

“Very well. You could listen to some music while I make dinner.”

“I… could help you,” replied Gregory.

He did not even get close to the record player, found Mycroft. Maybe if he were to leave around something to play in compliance with Gregory’s taste, next time…

Giving him time and space to get used to the house without Mycroft constant watchful gaze on his back would resolve a lot of awkwardness, in Mycroft’s opinion. Next week he could let himself be delayed another couple of hours by Lebanon issue (and those supposed ‘peace missions’) to keep a lid on his desire to run home, every time he was waiting for Gregory, and give the man a chance to relax.

Mycroft poured himself a finger of scotch and clinked his glass with Gregory’s, after giving it to him.

“There is absolutely no need,” he declined his help offer.

“Mycroft, come on. I’d be uncomfortable, if I…” tried again Gregory.

“Nonsense,” Mycroft cut him off kindly. He moved to the door. “It will be fifteen minutes at most.”

Maybe it would be enough telling Gregory how much he was fond of his presence, how he looked forward to spend those quiet nights with him (sometimes Mycroft had the impression that it would be enough let those transparent eyes look at him for a second too much, to make everything he was feeling manifest), instead of weaving intrigues to let Gregory alone inside his house, but that was not the way of Mycroft Holmes.

Eventually, Gregory would have cotton on, because he was a smart man, and he knew Mycroft more and more every day, without showing sign of getting tired of it. Maybe those hours away from Gregory’s gaze were good for Mycroft too, allowing him to get comfortable with that thought.

He had been cooking for five minutes when he heard cascading notes from the record player, upstairs. He could not stop himself from raising his eyes overhead, imagining Gregory’s movements, faltering at first and then resolved, almost bold, while the man selected the music for their evening.

Later that night, Mycroft was feeling too relaxed to worry about the questions Gregory was about to ask.

“Are you going to tell me what’s up with that satisfied face?” he murmured to the back of Mycroft’s head, pulling him closer to his chest in the dark, under the sheets.

“A satisfied face, exactly,” replied Mycroft, “Not at all unusual after certain… activities between us. In fact, I was honestly convinced I had verbally expressed my whole satisfaction already, in an unequivocal manner.”

Gregory chuckled: “Shhh, it’s not about sex. It was already on your face when you got home and called me for dinner. You are… plotting. And seeing the results you were hoping for.”

Mycroft smiled. He knew this was bound to happen. Maybe Gregory was not able to notice everything, nor always managed to reconstruct the cause and effect relationship of the events surrounding him, but if something could raise his suspicions, he would not let it slide. And what did it matter, he was not able to infer cause and effect by himself: Gregory was a policeman, his job was asking questions.

“So? Thinking about how sidetracking me?” pressed Gregory with a grin.

Mycroft could feel it in his tone, in the way Gregory’s breath caressed his ear.

“I might have some ideas, but I don’t think I have the strength to carry them out right now, unfortunately,” he said. “I was merely thinking how delightful is finding you here when I come home,” he added.

It was not what he had wanted to say. Too close to the truth, too simple. Yet it did cover well enough his true plan: allowing Gregory to get used to Mycroft’s house. To Mycroft’s life. He could imagine Gregory’s brow if he were to express the point that way: “Ohi! What am I, a dog learning not to shit on the carpet?”

Gregory remained quiet for a minute. “Yes, it’s nice,” he whispered in the end, landing a small kiss between Mycroft’s ear and cheekbone.

“Would you rule out the idea to get used to it, someday?” Mycroft asked.

“I don’t rule out anything at all, with you. Be it international intrigues John Le Carrè style or paranoid ravings about us,” Gregory smiled.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “You are probably right,” he confessed.

Well, if that truth was in the open by now, and Gregory was not afraid that could become their routine, in the future (and, most of all, he realized that Mycroft would always need to concoct twisted and slightly manipulating schemes to cope with his own feelings…), then there was no more reason to reign in and mask his desire to spend time with Gregory.

With good peace of the Lebanon issue, Mycroft thought with a little smile, while both men allowed themselves to drift away without other worries.


End file.
